


Here dwells the blind forgiveness

by Elizabeth G (WhiteCloud)



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Female Friendship, Fleabag is a sweetheart, Fleabag’s father died, Hysterical Blindness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Priest is a sweetheart, Priest is anxious but he’s there to help, Romance, Sisterly Love, Sisters cope, they still love each other of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteCloud/pseuds/Elizabeth%20G
Summary: Fleabag is literally blinded by the grief after her father has suddenly passed away. Facing her sister’s anguish, Claire is willing to help in any possible way, so she decides to ask for Priest’s support. He finds himself unable to refuse, but the blind woman he meets in the gloomy bedroom is so different from the one he’s left at the bus stop.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Kudos: 7





	Here dwells the blind forgiveness

“I think you may talk to him,” Claire barely whispered, holding the lifeless, subtle hand of her sister. “You’ve told me what happened, but I still think he is a kind person and, rather of all, regrets his decision. I think he would be deeply upset to find out that you were in such anguish but refused compassion.”

Fleabag smiled faintly. She slowly lowered her free hand on that bony palm. 

“Well, I have you. You’re the one I wish to have by me at times like this. People lie, they don’t care, but you’re that person who loves me no matter what. You won’t give me up, Claire, I trust you. I don’t need lovers,” she pressed on the last word. 

Claire gave a startled sigh at that. The moment of doubt passed and she ventured to shift her chair nearer to the bed where Fleabag was laying for almost a week, glaring at the duvet helplessly, fighting the ghosts that had filled the darkness around.

“You know he cares,” Claire breathed out softly, words touching Fleabag’s cheek with throbbing warmness. 

“Our father passed away. Maybe, you know that Fleabag loved him deeply. She got mad at Godmother and punched her just at the funeral. That was terrifying. She fell into despair and woke up blind the next day. She wholly lost her vision… The doctor said it’s temporary, but—” Claire’s voice broke off. She gave herself a moment to contemplate, clenched the slightly shaking hands, and blinked the wetness from the eyes. 

Four days passed after the funeral and she still was feeling weak in her head, trying not to fall or vomit because of the dizziness. 

Priest stood near, here, in the church hall. Luckily for them, it wasn't crowded with believers. Claire anticipated to feel the air of serenity and mercy, usually radiating from him, but that odd touch of elevation seemed to be dissolved today. Claire lifted her gaze and was almost surprised to find him in panic. His brown eyes clung to her. They looked turbid, yet bore the thin glassy layer of suppressed tears. 

“Well,” Claire swallowed, struggling to put her thoughts together again. “She doesn’t have friends, doesn’t trust anybody… But she loves you, even if she’s claimed she is not. I think a talk with you can help her to feel more at peace. Your compassion may be healing. I believe you love her. It will help her soul. But even if you already don’t, please, try anyway."

“Please, come,” Claire smiled reassuringly, touching his shoulder in a light caress.

He stepped carefully, although every creak of the old floor sounded like an explosion for his tensed nerves. “Breathe,” he was reminding himself again and again. 

Fleabag didn’t turn her head to him. She was sitting on the bed without a move, her head bent down and eyes opened. They were black like before but looked like space without the stars, empty. It was his first thought that she didn’t see the duvet which seemed to be studying, didn’t see that dim light, pouring around them, making him feel that there wasn’t any living soul for miles around, just she — Fleabag, gleaming with her paleness, coating him in the painful exhaustion of her soul.

Priest begged himself not to be clumsy, but his knee needed to hit the bed when he sat on the chair. The knock was hollow and heavy, echoing inside his chest. It was the bed he remembered so well. 

“Hello,” he managed after a brief cough. 

“I’m glad you've come...” she didn’t mean to say that; the phrase had just slipped from her lips and she sighed from realization. 

“Claire let me know. It’s nice that she did. I want to be with you… To be there for you, I mean.”

Priest grabbed the Bible from the bag he’d taken. The mere touch of the cover was soothing for his nervous fingers. Fleabag turned her head to him slightly, and suddenly a short hit of laughter cut her throat. She knew that he had frozen, didn’t need her sight for being sure.

“So patronizing. I’m a lost soul, Father, I’m in pain. Help me out,” she sent a crooked smile towards the place where he was supposed to be sitting. 

“No. Me? Why?”

A rustling of fabric. He must have been squeezing his head. Fleabag lowered herself on the bed, let her spine rest, tugging the blanket just to her chin, but still holding her paralyzed eyes on him, showing that she’s present. 

“Of course, you shouldn’t—” Priest muttered under his breath, most likely keeping himself from swearing. “I didn’t anticipate making you happy with my visit. I understand it’s a stress for you, considering how we, what I… did. So I can return some time sooner because you need to be in peace.”

“I’m glad to hear you. Now,” she mused to herself. “It’s a bittersweet dream.”

“I’m sorry. Well, anyway, fuck… You should know that I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you. I shouldn’t have done it so... I couldn’t forget you, of course. I saw you every day. I was thinking about you and… you were in my dreams.”

She gasped.

“What, doing sinful things?”

“No… Oh no, why. Fuck, of course not.”

“It’s alright if you regret… If you think that the things we’ve done were sins.”

“I don’t… I… Keep those memories. They are dear to my heart. No regret, for sure. I was happy to accept your affection and I’m thankful for the gifts you were generous to give me.”

“It was a pleasure,” she admitted, and her heart twitched, a little bit less burdened. He still was like a ghost for her, but at least his presence was comforting. “It seems I shouldn’t have given my father to that woman.”

“I can’t know, of course, but I think it’s hardly her fault.”

“Yeah… I couldn’t help…”

“I feel that your soul is trying to reconcile. Reconciliation and humbleness are precious. The pain may be terrifying but it’ll pass.”

Fleabag curved her lips in a faint smile. Her answer abruptly poured out like a sigh of grief,

“It’s a lie. That day you said that love would pass, but nothing changed.”

At that moment she found comfort in her blindness. The room was crystallized, frozen by the awkwardness. Priest seemed to hold his breath, while she was shivering from the warming saltiness in her helpless eyes. 

“I’m so sorry that I put you in such pain. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You saw that I was suffering…”

“I thought that the way to God may be overgrown with thorns, or even should be overgrown.”

Fleabag bowed her head, listening. There was a weird high pitch, making his voice sound dry and creaking, and she wondered just for a minute whether he was crying. She decided to ask, but he suddenly interrupted that intention, gently putting his hand on her, squeezing through the blanket lightly, reassuringly. Fleabag turned her head in his direction and nodded absentmindedly, knowing that her gaze would've been too blurred to say him something.

“So,” she dared to conclude anyway. “I was a temptation for you.” 

“I'd felt very lonely before I met you.”

“That’s what I’m saying…”

“No, you filled that emptiness inside my heart. I felt full and overwhelmed with love even while leaving you. I knew I’d made you devastated, but at that time I thought it was for the sake of God.”

She smiled bitterly, although it should've looked more like a vicious grin. 

Priest lowered his eyes. His chest felt overstrained by now, hurting him, when he tried to take deep breaths. Seeing Fleabag in such a state, he couldn’t fight away the impression that she was blessed by God now, gifted with this disability. The evidence of her astonishment awakened tears in him the moment he came in, meanwhile his heart accepted the grief as a sign that he’d been mistaken. God wanted him to overthink what had happened between them.

“I thought I would make God proud of me if I despise the earthy feelings,” he tried once more, unevenly. “My feelings to you weren’t entirely earthy, of course. I wasn’t that silly, I didn’t assume the love to a woman a sin, but also my brain was telling me that it would be better if I restrained myself. Restraining always feels good, it gives you safety.”

Fleabag imagined that insanely elevated expression on his face when he paused. He should have finished, she thought, and cleared her throat, before wiping away the last wayward tear. 

“Nice sermon, really.”

“But then I was praying a lot…” he suddenly went on, as if that silence had existed only for her. “And after some time God showed so much mercifulness to me, letting me understand that you were his beloved creature, too.”

She was suddenly tempted to drop out and exchange glares with her inner friends but managed to compose herself. 

“God put so much his love in you, so that should’ve been a sin from my side, to hurt you. Of course, I was ready to give you my unconditional love like a father, but that’s not what you wanted. And that was not what I wanted, with my soul and flesh.”

“You hit me and ran away,” she finally found the strength to complete his reflections, even if it meant to be straightforward, in a bad way. She couldn’t say whether he was offended. His hand didn’t move, and the warmth of the touch had turned into heat long ago. 

He agreed. 

“That was too abruptly. I thought it would be not only for my but for your benefit, too…”

“Maybe I could make you happy if I’d been given more time.”

A weird sound came from him. It had sounded like a gulp, so she turned her head questioningly. 

“I’m sorry…”

“I shouldn’t interrupt you but, maybe, you want something?” Claire’s familiar voice poured into the room. Fleabag heard the clapping of her slippers when she entered from the kitchen. “You’re talking more than half an hour already…” 

Priest took his hand away, not too quickly though. 

“I think I’d like to sleep now. Can’t do it at night,” Fleabag explained to him, hushing her emotions with a casual tone.

“Oh, of course! I’m sorry, I should have known. I exhausted you,” Priest stood up immediately, but she held him back. 

“You had the Bible on your knees, right? I heard how it was rustling.”

“You’re right.”

“So don’t leave for now if you can. Claire will make you tea. You may read for me. I think your voice can help me go to sleep. I should be listening to someone and stop hearing my thoughts.”

“My voice hurt you.”

“If I didn't want to hear it, I wouldn’t ask for the favor. Now it hurts in a nice way. I don’t like when coldness hurts. When love hurts, it’s okay. I’m not going to refuse this sort of pain. Besides, your visit feels like I’m having a dream. Your voice embraces me in the darkness. I think it might lead me to another world, where I won’t remember about my grief,” Fleabag knew that he was staring at her, breathless. She put her cheek on the pillow, stretching her lips in what should’ve looked like a fatigued smile. “Come on. The gospel won’t harm me.”


End file.
